


The Affairs of Dragons

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [12]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Agravaine is a dick, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Biting, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Dragon Merlin (Merlin), Dragonspeak, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Merlin Has Had Enough Of Your Shit Agravaine, Possessive Merlin (Merlin), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24072190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Men should never meddle in them. It tends to end in most disastrous fashion. For the men, anyways.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737112
Comments: 41
Kudos: 897
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	The Affairs of Dragons

_"Merlin…"_

Arthur's voice is hoarse, utterly wrecked, choked off in a strangled moan. Pressed to his back, Merlin growls low in his throat, never stopping the slow-steady movement of his hand or his hips. Arthur drops his head back against his shoulder with a weak sound; from another, it might be called a whimper. One hand clutches at the arm Merlin has braced around his chest, keeping them pressed tightly against one another, the other reaching back to grasp at Merlin's thigh. He never would admit it in so many words, but he loves being taken like this, though he would never let anyone other than Merlin have him. He strains against his dragon's grip, knowing full well he won't break it, enjoying the struggle.

Merlin tightens his grip on Arthur, feeling that coiling spring in his belly wind tighter and tighter. Arthur writhes against him, sweat-slick and gasping, nails scrabbling at Merlin's thigh. Pulling his mate in closer—perfect, _perfect_ mate, his, all his, only his—Merlin tightens his grip, thrusts in up to the hilt, and snarls from the bottom of his chest as he spends, spilling himself out inside his mate. And he bites. His teeth sink into the tender flesh at the nape of Arthur's neck, tasting the sweet copper of blood, and Arthur's entire body jerks in response, a strangled cry bursting from him.

It is something dragons do, bite their mates at one of the most vulnerable points of their bodies, a display of trust and passion. Usually, Merlin resists the temptation of it, knowing Arthur doesn't like marks left where his clothes don't cover, but his hair is long enough now to hide the worst of the bite. He growls low against Arthur's neck, teeth still in him, and his prince shudders all over, spilling hot over Merlin's hand. A few more strokes of his hand to coax out the last spasms of pleasure, then he lets go, first his hand, then his teeth, running his tongue over the bite in silent apology.

Arthur is entirely pliant and unresisting in his arms, limbs slack, and he makes that low noise in his throat again when Merlin gently withdraws from him, pulling away and turning him over onto his back.

"Arthur? Alright?" he asks, gently brushing sweat-damp hair away from his brow, sliding the soft gold strands through his fingers.

"Mm."

Merlin smiles a little, pressing a brief kiss to his mouth. It isn't often he renders Arthur entirely speechless, but when it does happen, then he'll be nonverbal for quite a while. He casts a silent charm to clean them both of the mess, then coaxes Arthur into a more comfortable position against him. The prince regent lets himself be manhandled without protest, eyes closed, and gives a low, pleased sigh as Merlin curls against him, pressed together much like they had been moments before.

Despite being pleasantly weary, Merlin doesn't truly sleep, only dozes, breathing in the warm scent of his mate and himself and sex, the taste of blood still tinging his mouth. When he opens his eyes again, it is entirely dark, and Arthur is dead to the world, deeply asleep as he rarely is. Careful, careful, Merlin eases his arm out from where it's tucked under Arthur and slides away from him, out of the bed. Arthur doesn't stir, snuffling into the pillows. He pulls the blankets up over his mate and gently strokes a hand over his hair. _"Er-îshta vuillest,"_ he murmurs.

Dressing in the close darkness, he leaves Arthur to sleep, steps from the chamber, and closes the door between them, silently twisting his magic through the door to ensure no one can open it without his knowledge. It's a risky thing to do, such blatant magic at the prince regent's chamber, but it soothes that hot, fanged streak of possessiveness in him, knowing his mate is safe.

Thus warded, he sets out in search of Agravaine du Bois.

_"He wants you to_ what?"

_Arthur at least has the good sense to look vaguely guilty, fiddling with a feather quill on his desk. "It wouldn't be an ironclad vow, just…offering the possibility," he tries to explain._

_"Offering the possibility of marriage," Merlin snaps back, slinging a pillow against the headboard hard enough for it to rattle a little. "If Nemeth wants that overgrown hedge, then let them have it!"_

_"It isn't that simple—"_

"Tashoj!" _he shouts, then belatedly flicks a hand at the door, ensuring their private words remained private. "I do not care what your_ sainted _uncle thinks, marriage in exchange for a single small province is foolish."_

_"Gedref isn't that small, and it is more than a single province. Nemeth is a strong kingdom. They've a good army, a fleet, something we could very well need the next time Essetir or anyone else sets their mind to invade Camelot. It's about forming a lasting alliance, perhaps even one day making Nemeth and Camelot into a single kingdom for—"_

_"Do not," Merlin warns. "Don't you_ dare _say it." His claws have already slid out from his nails, biting into his palms, and he can taste metallic heat in the back of his throat. It is hard enough to consider the idea that someone else might get to touch Arthur,_ his mate, _but if he even so much as hears one word of siring children, he is quite certain he'll slip his skin right here and now._

_Arthur folds his arms over his chest, gazing across the chamber at him. "Merlin…you had to know this might happen one day," he says, his voice low._

_He glares across the bed at him, the bed they had shared so many nights, and he's surprised at the coldness of his own voice when he replies, "Perhaps I had hoped that you would've learnt that trading your personal happiness for politics gains you nothing."_

Agravaine knows from the moment he enters his chamber that there is someone else there with him. He had not left the candles lit, nor had he called for the wine that is sitting on the table, and he _knows_ he had locked his chamber door behind him when he left. He doesn't trust a single insipid soul in this castle.

"Good evening, my lord."

One hand goes to the hilt of his dagger on reflex as he turns towards the sound of the voice, but he takes it away when he sees the source. It's Arthur's peculiar manservant, Merlin. "What do you think you are doing in here?"

"I wanted to speak to you," the boy answers with a perfectly mild little smile, though there's a sleek, smug air about him, something well-satisfied. "We've not had much chance to speak to one another, have we?"

Agravaine narrows his eyes, wondering if he is simply being facetious or if he truly thinks that they have anything to say to one another. Either way, he's an idiot for it. Morgana had said Arthur was strangely of his servant, though Agravaine can see nothing to be fond of, except for a blatant disregard for any form of propriety or courtesy. "I have nothing to say to a servant." Resolving to pay the fool no mind, he turns his back, taking off his cloak and hanging it from the corner of the dressing screen, hanging his belt up beside it.

"I think there's a great deal we do not understand about one another, my lord," Merlin goes on conversationally. He picks up the pitcher of wine that had been left on the table, pouring a measure into the goblet and holding it out.

Agravaine makes no move to take it.

"For example, I do not understand how it is that you have never been seen in the city of Camelot in all the years I have been here, nor have you ever been mentioned by any member of court, yet the moment Arthur is appointed prince regent, you blow in with the next strong wind." Merlin takes a drink of the wine, leaning one hip against the table edge. He doesn't sit down, though.

"My presence at court is no business of yours," he replies sternly, staring at the boy. "And I will not have some lowborn bastard from another kingdom stand here and imply that I am playing my own nephew false. Now get out."

Merlin crosses one leg in front of the other, leaning his weight on the table, and sips the wine slowly.

Agravaine takes a step towards him. "Get out, or I will have the guards drag you to the dungeons." And then he will have him flogged in the square for good measure. Clearly his idiot nephew is entirely too soft on insubordination, allowing this impetuous little upstart to speak to a member of the Great Houses in such manner. This boy could do well to be taught a lesson in manners.

"They could certainly try," Merlin replies, sounding genuinely amused by the prospect. "Very well. Since you insist." He drains the last of the cup and replaces it on the tray, straightening up; when he takes a step nearer, the air around him smells like sulphur. He bows from the waist yet holds Agravaine's gaze, eyes rolled up to watch him, defiant. When he straightens up, for a flickering second, the candlelight plays a strange trick in his eyes, catching in his pupils like a cat's, all green-orange before returning to normal. He's not blinked yet, Agravaine realises. "Goodnight, my lord. I hope we understand one another better."

_"I've told Uncle I'll make terms with Nemeth without a betrothal." Arthur can almost see the tension ease from the line of Merlin's back, even from across the chamber. Swallowing hard, he adds softly, "You were right."_

_"I usually am," comes the dry retort, but even that is a relief to hear. For a creature of fire, Merlin is terrifyingly adept at giving a cold shoulder. When he turns, there's a small smile on his face._

_Arthur holds out a hand towards him; to his relief, Merlin comes to him, letting Arthur's arm slide around his waist, sinking down to sit on his lap. He rests his chin on one shoulder. "You know, I always thought that the dragon was supposed to capture the princess and battle the prince for her, not threaten to incinerate the princess in a fit of jealousy over the prince," he muses, only half-teasing._

_"I imagine that is because in those stories, the prince was not the dragon's mate, nor his most precious treasure," Merlin answers, facetious as ever. "And I would not have incinerated her. Just scorched her enough that she'd lock herself in a tower of her own will. Let some other prince rescue her then."_

_Arthur tilts his head to better see his face. "I am your treasure?"_

_With both arms around him, he can feel Merlin go tense for half a beat, then relax back against him. "Yes, you are. Gold and silver and gemstones…I have no use for them, Arthur. I never have. And what use are they, truly? Gold cannot take me on imaginary hunting trips around the kingdom just to enjoy the spring. Silver cannot lay in my lap and ask me to read poetry because doing drills in the rain is miserable. Gemstones cannot share wine with me at the Rising Sun with our friends and laugh about all the utter nonsense we've gotten into." He offers a smile, small but genuine, gaze soft as he reaches around to comb fingers through Arthur's hair, smoothing it back from his brow and cupping the back of his head. "Rock and metal wrought in pleasing form, that is all they are. There are things in this world far more precious. And you are first and foremost among them,_ er-îshta, _my beloved."_

_Arthur leans up and kisses him. It's all he can do, not trusting his own voice. He kisses him with the force of all he cannot say, holding his consort close and tight against him; Merlin gives a low, rolling growl against his mouth. Arthur groans in response, feeling the vibration of it in his own chest, and he plunges his tongue into Merlin's mouth, careful of the sharp edges of his teeth._

_Merlin twists in his hold, searching for a better angle, and Arthur gives another groan as the movement somehow manages to press the sorcerer's entire tall, lithe body against him. "Bed," he manages to say despite Merlin's tongue in his mouth._

_"Chair." Sharp-tipped nails slide under his tunic._

_It certainly wouldn't be the first time they put his favourite chair through its paces, but for what Arthur wants, the chair won't suit. "Get in the bed," he murmurs, "so I can get you in me."_

_Merlin scrabbles off his lap so fast it's a miracle he doesn't trip._

When he returns to their chamber, one of the windows is partially open, but it doesn't alarm him. There's nothing here that doesn't belong here. Arthur is curled on his side with Aithusa snuggled up into the curve of his belly, a splash of bright white against the deep red of the bedcovers. She prefers to make herself scarce when they mate, but she always returns to sleep with them afterwards.

As he approaches the bed, quietly shedding his clothes, Aithusa lifts her head and peeps a greeting at him. "I'm here, _lai hieba,"_ Merlin whispers. "Shh, you'll wake him."

Too late. Arthur opens one eye to glare up at him, the corners of his mouth turning down. "It's the middle of the damn night." It might've been more intimidating if not for the livid purple lovebite on his throat, a pale echo of the bite mark on his nape, and the languid air of one just been thoroughly tumbled hanging about him. Not to mention he must've just rolled over, and his hair is still standing up all helter-skelter where he'd been lying on it.

Merlin lifts the edge of the rumpled blankets, sliding into the sheets. By his estimate, it's just gone the hour of the wolf. "Yes, I know."

"The bed's been cold." It's as close as he'll get to saying he missed Merlin while still cross, petty creature he is. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere." Merlin curls himself to Arthur's back and settles an arm over his waist, and that part of him that is solely _dragon,_ all fire and instinct, curls up and purrs with contentment, surrounded by _mate_ and _child_ and _home._ He lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction. "Just taking care of something."

"What?"

_"Tagos viale pas virril os vi masun s' drakkos, cui tos ac fessalis a nieveh ii-meschenichta."_

"Hmm?"

Merlin cards his fingers through all that soft lavender-smelling hair, noting with some approval that it's getting some highlights back, now that he's going outside regularly again. "Nothing, just an old Drakine proverb."

"Mm." Arthur yawns, apparently giving up the conversation and settling back Merlin as sleep relaxes him once more.

Still lying curled against Arthur's belly, Aithusa nudges Merlin's fingers and gives a soft, inquisitive peep, and he plucks their tether with reassurance, hiding a smile against the nape of his mate's neck. Everything is fine now.

Three days later, Agravaine returns from Morgana's company to find the Knights of the Round Table awaiting him at the forest edge.

**Author's Note:**

> Îshta—beloved  
> Lai hieba—little pearl  
> Tagos viale pas virril os vi masun s' drakkos, cui tos ac fessalis a nieveh ii-meschenichta—Men should not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for they are crunchy and good with preserves.  
> Tashoj—a Drakine vulgarity, "bullshit"  
> Vuillest—beautiful


End file.
